


Purgatory

by KrisLetang



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anxiety, Depression, Flashbacks, Interrogation, PTSD, Rape, Rape Kit, Rape Kit Backlog, Victim Blaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2018-06-16
Packaged: 2019-05-23 23:42:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14943543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KrisLetang/pseuds/KrisLetang
Summary: The harm of the rape kit back log. Inspired by Mariska Hargitay





	Purgatory

**Author's Note:**

> This is something I actually wrote for a school assignment. We were supposed to take a real life situation and turn it into fiction. I used an article about the rape kit back log and Mariska and wrote this. My teacher wants me to submit it to the scholastic writing competition. I haven't decided yet.

Dark room, moonlight peeking through the slight slits in the window shade. The wall felt solid against my back as I sat slumped on the floor, a contrast to my backbone that seemed to have liquified since  _ it _ happened. Since my life was turned upside down. I used to have dreams, to have aspirations, to feel strong, but now, all I could think about was  _ it,  _ all I could feel was weak. Everything had fallen to shambles, my mental stability, my emotions, my career, my life. My phone lit up beside me, and I spared just a glance in its direction....my boyfriend, checking in again. I didn’t want to talk to him anymore, to worry him. He had already been through hell and back trying to be there and support me, but he didn’t understand. He couldn’t help. I dropped my head into my hands, trembling fingers raking through thick locks of sweat-dampened hair. I could feel my breathing picking up as I thought about it again, harsh gasps escaping my lips, tears blurring my vision and trickling down my cheeks. It had been weeks since I heard from the prosecutors and detectives. Originally they were the ones that wouldn’t leave me alone. 

 

******

 

The interrogation room was cold and dark, a flickering light disturbing both the peace and my sanity. It felt so impersonal and intimidating, what seemed like hundreds of tall, stoic figures in suits entering and exiting over the six hours I had been sitting in there. My hand shook as I took a sip from the water I requested. I had a foreign sweatshirt on, adding to my humiliation; I couldn’t even wear my own clothes because now they were evidence. My hair was damp from the shower they finally allowed. A knock on the door startled me, adrenaline rushing through my body once more. It was a constant state of stress. I could barely think straight anymore, exhaustion overtaking me slowly. I didn’t even know what time it was. “Ma’am, we have a few questions,” a gruff voice barked. 

“Right,” I said lamely, looking up at the tall men. One stood straight, dressed in black dress slacks and a crisp grey shirt. He was scowling at me, his eyes cold and unfriendly. The second was taller, muscular and seemed indifferent, like he didn’t want to be there. They paced for a few seconds, the shorter man placing his hands on the back of the chair, leaning toward me. I felt vulnerable, in the little metal chair, in a sweatshirt that wasn’t mine, all alone in the dark room with two men. 

“You were drunk,” it wasn’t even a question. He said it matter of factly, looking straight at me like I should be ashamed of myself. 

“I had two glasses of wine, I wasn’t drunk,” I replied immediately. He didn’t argue, but the look on his face made it obvious he didn’t believe me. 

“What were you wearing earlier?” he asked, taking a seat on the table. I felt uneasy. The room was full of tension so thick you could cut it with a knife, and I knew they didn’t believe me. They were asking accusatory questions, and neither of them even seemed like they were interested in hearing what I had to say. I sighed, it was going to be a long night. What was the point even? 

 

******

 

I should have known then that nothing was going to happen. The demeanor of the police officers should have been enough to tip me off, but I stubbornly was holding onto hope that there was some form of justice that could come out of the worst night of my life. Going through hours and hours of reliving the trauma and subjecting myself to embarrassing tests and procedures couldn’t have been for nothing. That’s what I wanted to believe. I should have known the world was unfair. I should have known no one would fight for me. I should have known I was alone. I should have known no one would care. I should have known not to even bother, but instead I held onto that last scrap of hope. 

I let my head fall back against the wall, tears stinging my eyes as I thought about all the interviews. There was always an air of judgment and skepticism that accompanied the thousands of times I was asked to relive my assault. First to detectives, over and over and over again, recounting every small detail I could possibly remember, wracking my brain for every piece of personal information that could be important should the case go to court. Then talking to prosecutors, cold lawyers with briefcases who eyed me like they thought I was lying. Their questions were worse than the cops’. They had every possible thing that could go wrong weighing on their shoulders, and I understood that was their job, but it was so insensitive. They asked me to talk about things that were so hard to think about, things I wanted to scrub from my memory and forget, but it was branded in my mind. 

Waiting for weeks for the call, the call saying they had a lead, they tested the DNA, I needed to testify. I waited and waited and waited. Nothing. How could there be nothing from all that suffering? It didn’t make any sense. My phone buzzed again, worried messages from friends that I wasn’t planning on answering. It had been days since I felt well enough to even get out of bed. Some days, everything felt so dark, like there was no point anymore, and I was so tired from holding myself together. I was done. It was a strange mixture of emotions where I felt both past the point of caring and incredibly angry and bitter. There were days when all I wanted to do was break everything in my apartment and scream until my throat was so hoarse and I lost my voice, and other days I would burrow under the covers, shutting my eyes and lying curled up in the fetal position.  Long afternoons where the wall beside my bed became an interesting pattern of swirls and stains on the paint, chips and marks that I never noticed before. 

Late at night, the monsters would emerge from my mind. I would wake up in a pool of sheets, sweat soaking through my clothes and the pillow, sometimes already crying, sometimes screaming. The nightmares would disappear for a week, but return full force when I finally thought I was safe. It was an endless cycle of torture, a constant reminder. The gravel digging into my shoulders, warm breath in my face, the stench of cigarettes and booze, things I wouldn’t ever forget. There were nights when I thought about how embarrassing it all was. Having to explain over and over again how I let myself....No. I wasn’t supposed to be blaming myself or making excuses, but it was so hard sometimes, especially when all the police officers seemed to be shouting the same thing at me. The most embarrassing part of it all was the rape kit. 

 

*****

 

Laying on the uncomfortable little bed, paper crinkling as I shifted around to try and get comfortable. Everything hurt. I closed my eyes, sucking in a sharp breath as I brushed a particularly bad area on my hip. I felt tears prick my eyes as I thought about why I was there again. No. I wouldn’t cry again. I squeezed my eyes closed, but it was no use. Warm tears starting spilling onto my cheeks despite my best efforts, and I swiped at them with the back of my hand, my nose starting to run again. I wanted nothing more than to leave, but I knew they needed to do the kit if I ever hoped to feel safe again. It felt like an eternity before there was a knock on the door, a doctor coming in. “I understand we’re going to be performing a rape kit,” he said plainly. He was looking down at a chart, not even at my face. “Well?” 

“Yes,” I finally managed to choke out when I found my voice. I hadn’t realized he was expecting an answer. 

“An advocate should be here soon, and a nurse will be in momentarily to get you ready for the procedures. I need you to please sign these papers and fill all of this out,” he said, dumping a stack of paperwork in my hands. I struggled to sit up, wincing as I moved my arm. I took the pen, starting to write my name on the first sheet, a smear of crimson staining the stark white. My thoughts felt drowned out by white noise, every question taking far longer than it should have.  **Social Security Number.** I bit my lip, I had memorized it right out of highschool; I should know it. Feeling helpless, another rush of tears overwhelmed me, and I felt so, so stupid. I set the papers down in frustration, contemplating standing up and leaving immediately, but something kept me there. Maybe it was the hope that he wouldn’t get away with what he did to me, or maybe it was some sort of obligation I felt to report him so it wouldn’t happen to someone else. 

“Hi, I’m nurse Jackie,” a woman said from the door, “Can you stand up? We need to get those clothes off you, and we’ll start the kit,” 

“T--The doctor said something about an advocate,” I whispered, but she kept coming closer, 

“Stand on this sheet, I’ll leave you with this gown,” she said. I shakily stood there, pulling my shirt over my head and then my pants. Tears stinging my eyes, throat burning, I forced myself to breathe. I was shivering in the cold, stale hospital air as I carefully tried to avoid the pain that accompanied brushing my bruises. Finally, I sat back down on the crinkly paper that covered the uncomfortable bed, clad in nothing but a thin paper gown. “The detectives will be in soon to listen to your disclosure, meanwhile I need to take some hair samples and swabs,” I just laid back, nodding numbly as she spoke. I kept my eyes on the ceiling, counting tiles to stay calm. Every touch threatened to send me into a panic, so I focused my attention elsewhere. My eyes met a curious brown stain on the ceiling and I frowned. What in the world even was that? Had someone thrown their coffee all over the wall? “Ma’am?” I jerked slightly, surprised by the voice and shocked back into awareness. 

“Sorry, sorry,” I mumbled. 

“Open your mouth. I need to take a few swabs,” the nurse said, and I blinked, opening up slowly. It was going to be a long, long night. 

 

*****

 

It was humiliating and embarrassing. They swabbed  _ everywhere _ , and detectives stood there, asking me questions over and over again. My brain hadn’t been working very well, everything feeling jumbled up and confused. I tried my best to explain, to recount the story to them, but it was hard when it all happened so fast and I felt sick. It had been five hours of pictures, swabs, poking and prodding, and by the end of it, I felt ragged and upset. On the way to the precinct in the back of a police cruiser, I broke down, weeping the whole time. I still had hours of questioning ahead of me, and judging from the vibes in the hospital room, they didn’t believe me one bit. I knew they wouldn’t. 

Sitting alone, in my own home, feeling like a prisoner of my own mind, I started to cry once more, hating myself all the more for it. I couldn’t help but think that I should be able to move on, but as long as he was still out there, I was stuck. I was caught in this place between traumatized and healing, and everytime they challenged me and accused me of lying, I felt violated all over again. I wasn’t sure what I’d rather have: the accusations or the silence. They hadn’t called in weeks. When I called, they replied with excuses. At this point, I knew they weren’t going to do anything. They didn’t believe or they didn’t care. Or both. 

They didn’t understand my reality, the hell I lived in every day. Every creaky floorboard or gust of wind was him waiting to pin me down again. Every quiet moment was the sound of my screams muffled against his hand. Every time I shut my eyes, I saw his dark figure looming over me. I needed closure. The DA had said they didn’t have enough evidence yet, but the evidence was right there. His DNA in that kit, those swabs, the hairs, my clothes. They had plenty of evidence that they weren’t using. The answer was right there, right in front of them. It was me. 


End file.
